Without You
by AndromedaStarr
Summary: They loved each other, yet they married other people. The story of Beckett and Norrington. Slash, warning for character death. Please read and review. I promise it's better than you think.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Romance/angst, a slash pairing of Norrington and Beckett. Warnings for occasional cursing, some sexuality, and character death. The usual disclaimers apply.

_Please_ review.

* * *

_Port Royal_

_January, 1729_

It was funny, Norrington reflected, how little he had expected it. The way his life had suddenly become a tempest of fear and loathing and desire, the way his entire world now seemed to revolve around one person, the way he was utterly under a spell that had been wrought by eyes and hands and a single arrogant smile. And it had been so abrupt, so unexpected, so insane he could barely believe it had happened to him...he had laid eyes on Lord Cutler Beckett, and his heart was no longer his own.

He was in love with the man, and that was the truth of it. Completely at the mercy of the cultured voice, the coldly amused eyes, the maddeningly sensual cupid's bow mouth. Beckett had become his god; he had given him back his commission and promoted him to admiral, he had returned all the property Norrington had left behind in his drunken rush for Tortuga, and he was in the process of arranging a suitable marriage to a remarkably beautiful woman. The marriage, however, was solely for appearances, because both he and Beckett knew full well where Norrington's heart truly lay.

It was only then, in the still of the night as their harsh breathing slowed, that Norrington thought he really understood himself and what he wanted. It was those brief moments of pleasure and abandon, however fleeting, that made his otherwise hellish life worth living. His work for the East India Trading Company, the nightmarish interaction with Davy Jones and his unnatural crew, his meaningless pretense to court this woman – everything seemed to fade away when he was with Beckett, when they loved each other in the purest of ways. It was those moments that restored Norrington's soul.

He never had been absolutely certain of Beckett's feelings for him, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to be certain of anything as of recently. The other man had been acting differently; he was more reserved, yet now his words were tinged with open sexuality, as though he spoke for Norrington alone to hear. He worried that Beckett was getting reckless, and that he would reveal Norrington's most closely guarded secret.

Norrington turned slowly, in an effort to not disturb his bedfellow, but he was not at all surprised to find Beckett already awake. Half-closed green eyes regarded him lazily and with silent curiosity. Norrington wondered how Beckett always seemed to know when something was bothering him.

"Hello," he said softly, running a hand down the pale neck and into the curve of one shoulder. "That was..." He paused to search for an appropriate adjective and failed miserably. "Nice."

Beckett rose on one elbow, and one corner of his mouth gave a little curl. "Nice?" The lilt of his voice, the way his tongue skimmed his teeth when he finished speaking...Norrington fought back a shudder. "Come now. You forget how well I know you, and how well I know your propensity to be...vocal. Surely you can come up with something better than 'nice'."

Norrington closed his eyes. Not only did he insist on speaking inappropriately during their lovemaking, but he moaned quite loudly. "Sorry," he muttered, and traced the contours of Beckett's face. "Do you never sleep?"

"Why should I sleep, James?" Fingertips brushed Norrington's cheek, then his lips. "I'd rather watch you. You sleep so soundly. What do you dream about?"

If it had been a few weeks ago, Norrington would have smiled and answered immediately and honestly, and said that the only thing he ever dreamt about was the man lying next to him. But things were different now, and he was afraid to be honest. Afraid to be vulnerable.

"The future," he whispered, and he couldn't meet the green eyes that appraised him.

The cool hand brushed Norrington's dark hair back from his forehead, and followed the curve of one eyebrow. "Am I in your future?" The question was deceptively light.

The time when Norrington could have responded with impunity had passed. Now he needed to weigh his words, to think whether he wanted to lay his heart open before Beckett and provide him with all manner of weapons with which to destroy it. Sometimes caution was necessary, sometimes it was not. Norrington had never been able to decide when to be cautious and when to be blunt.

He sighed. "No," he said softly. "You'll tire of me before then, won't you." He didn't bother to give it the inflection of a question, but let it lie as a statement.

Beckett's eyes had darkened; they were now the grey of thunderstorms. "I wasn't aware you had any right to speak for me," he said acidly. "You presume the contents of my head, James."

"Won't you tire of me?" Norrington asked with barely concealed hopelessness.

Beckett's mouth compressed into a fine line. Norrington, who was well versed by now in the intricacies of the man's body language, understood that he was furious. "Shouldn't you know?" Beckett got out of bed. "You wish to make excursions into my mind and tell me what I'm thinking, don't you? Well then, Admiral, why don't you inform me of whether I'll tire of you or not?" He picked up his dressing gown, slid it on and left the room.

Norrington cursed himself. Reaching across the bed, he laid one hand on the cooling place on the sheet where Beckett had been and pressed his face into the pillow to smell the fading scent of the man. Stray rays of sunlight were beginning to perforate the curtains. It was time to get up and put on the mask.

* * *

Catherine Montgomery was indeed a beautiful woman, one so beautiful it would be unfair to mention her other worthy characteristics as well. She had a figure that made men's knees weak, a lithe, catlike grace, and long curls of chestnut hair. She was spirited and fiery, with a temper to rival an untamed stallion, though this temper was slow to kindle. She had been well educated; she had a brain as sharp as a razor's edge, and excelled in fencing as well as horsemanship. Her dark eyes never betrayed her thoughts. In short, she reminded him of Elizabeth.

But where Elizabeth had been bold with words, Catherine wielded her sentences like swords. Where Elizabeth would speak her mind, Catherine would cut you with her opinion. Where Elizabeth would reject your love, Catherine would tear your heart in two so you could never love again. This extremity of mood and passion was perhaps the only thing that kept Norrington coming back to her – she was a woman worth courting, even if he could not love her.

"You're troubled," she said to him as they watched the dusk encroach upon the vast expanse of glittering water in the Port Royal harbour. "What is it that occupies your mind and takes you far from where we stand?"

Norrington pushed thoughts of Beckett from his mind. "Merely my work," he replied, turning to her and leaning back against the railing. "And you."

One corner of her mouth twitched slightly. "You hardly ever think of me."

"But it would taste a lie to say I never do," he answered. He was far from playing the part of besotted lover to perfection, but Catherine was not the sort of woman to sway with pretty words. She knew as well as he did that he did not love her. "You are a fine woman."

"You are not the first to say this," she said, looking out over the sea, which was a deep, burnished golden now, and the sky violet. "Many men have asked me for my hand, James. Why do you suppose I would give it to you?"

"Because we are alike." He studied her intently for a moment. "It would be a mutually beneficial agreement. You would receive an upstanding, wealthy husband and an allowance guaranteed to stand you in good stead for the rest of your life should anything happen to me. And I, in turn, will be repaid with a beautiful, intelligent wife."

"I notice your terms do not include the presence of my body in your bed," Catherine noted dryly. "Am I to assume that you do not require it?"

Norrington could not deny that he enjoyed her company, nor could he deny that he found no fault in her face or form. And despite feelings that might have indicated to the contrary, he was not altogether certain that he did not wish to experience said form. He mulled over what she had said. "I would call it a gift rather than an obligation," he said softly. "If you wish to grant me your virtue, I would gladly accept it."

She smiled. "You're a curious man, James. You do not have the typical desires of men." His jaw clenched, and he looked away. "But you must not worry." She rested one hand lightly on his shoulder. "If you will have me, I will gladly enter into this mutually beneficial agreement."

He looked at her, startled. Finally, he allowed himself to smile, the first real smile that had crossed his lips in what seemed like years. "Thank you, Catherine." He took the hand she had rested on his shoulder and pressed it between both of his.

Her fingers tightened on his, and he felt a surprising flood of warmth through his body. "You ask so little," she said quietly, "and yet you choose to give so much." She touched his face in what seemed like wonderment. "If you would grant it, James, I would ask one more thing of you."

Norrington squared his shoulders and inclined his head. "What would you have?"

"Your confidence," she told him. "I would know the demons that torment you."

He shivered, but it was not cold. "What demons?"

"I see them in your eyes, James." Her fingertips lingered on his cheekbone. "These eyes are haunted. They betray you. I will not."

He stared at her for a long, long time, their gazes locked and unwavering, and slowly he nodded. "Very well. You shall be both my friend and my wife."

Their eyes turned to the sea, they watched night cast its smothering blanket of darkness over the Jamaica coast, and when both had clad their faces once again in the bland, polite façades that society deemed appropriate, they ventured forth, arm in arm, to the feeding frenzy of the aristocracy, to nourish the gossips with the news of their very recent engagement.

* * *

The dinner parties, the balls and all the other pomp and ceremony surrounding a noble marriage swirled around Norrington like a blur. He was proper and correct, granting his fiancée much leeway in terms of planning and organizing, but his heart was not in it. Every day he thought a little more about the man he really loved; every day another fragment of who he was died inside him.

This particular gathering was to be at the governor's house, although Swann himself would not be present. The governor was currently in England, accompanied by Beckett's highly capable right-hand man Mercer, who would no doubt see to it that a suitable report was given to the Queen. Thinking of Beckett made Norrington breathless as he ascended the steps; he had to turn aside and pause in order to compose himself.

Catherine laid a gloved hand on his arm. "James," she said gently.

"I'm fine." He turned to her, his face calm and smooth, his feathers unruffled. She did look lovely. He smiled and offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

They swept into the hall, as picture-perfect as any couple could be, and a mob of society women instantly descended on Catherine, cooing over her dress and her hair. The accompanying mob of society men gathered around Norrington, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back, and before he knew what was happening they were on opposite sides of the room and he could barely see her.

A jowly ex-Navy type caught Norrington's hand in his. His face was so red it was a wonder he hadn't exploded. "I say, old chap, you've made a bloody wonderful match! A real prize, that one!"

Norrington forced his face to relax into a smile. "I know."

"A fine woman!" The man shook Norrington's hand violently, and Norrington noticed the empty wine glass clutched in his other hand. Which explained the complexion and the behaviour. "A fine, fine woman!" He chortled, then choked, and two young lieutenants rushed up to escort him away.

Norrington took the glass of wine offered him by the butler and retreated to the balcony, breathing in the cool night air of the Caribbean. He had left England as a child, and he remembered little of the country the older Port Royal residents spoke of with wistful yearning. The England of his memory was cold and wet and grey, and Norrington, after the blue skies and hot sun of Jamaica, didn't think he could ever go back.

He glanced into the ballroom, where the pretty boys in ridiculous outfits and toothless old men alike were leering at the fashionable, alabaster-skinned young ladies. Norrington found the whole thing frankly disgusting. He lifted one hand self-consciously to the white wig he had donned, and spat a curse under his breath.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the crowd part, and he knew that only one person had that kind of presence, the kind of sheer power that made people of all classes and persuasions instinctively make way before him, and do anything his humour demanded that they do. It could only be Beckett.

Norrington hadn't seen him over the crowd, but he wouldn't have been able to in any case, not unless the man had entered the hall on a horse. At five foot five, Beckett was considerably small in stature, but he had never allowed his lack of height to stand in his way. What Lord Cutler Beckett wanted, Lord Cutler Beckett got.

"Lord Beckett," Norrington said without turning around. "I hope you didn't have to postpone important business in order to be here tonight."

"I would never attend a social function if it clashed with important business, Admiral." The tone was one of a teacher chiding an errant schoolboy. "I assure you that I took no pains to be here."

Norrington took a sip of the wine, hoping to hide his sudden feeling of dizziness. "I see," he said pointlessly, and scrutinized the horizon.

"It does have a certain allure, doesn't it?" Beckett was now standing beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes focused on the same thing. "It's not difficult to understand why Captain Jack Sparrow loved the ocean so much. It's the freedom, you see, that he craved. Staying beyond society's rules, the strict little regulations we are all forced to live by." Norrington swallowed, and Beckett continued, even more quietly, "There are all times when we wish to free ourselves from those restrictions, is that not so? To do as we please, to act without thinking, to love whom we wish?"

"I –" Norrington stopped. The internal battle was too much. He wanted so badly to be open about his feelings, to just come out and say what he was constantly thinking, but he was still so afraid. "Have you seen my fiancée?" he asked abruptly.

Beckett showed no outward signs of displeasure at the no doubt unwelcome change in topic, but Norrington could sense the tension in the other man's frame, and now he deeply regretted having asked the question. "Yes," Beckett replied coolly. "She is a fine woman."

"She will be a fine wife," Norrington said, forcing the stiffness from his voice, "and a fine mother to our children."

Beckett's head jerked, and Norrington knew he had surprised him. "Do you plan on having children by her, then?" he queried, but there was a tremor in the cool voice that Beckett could not seem to hide. "Pardon me, Admiral, if I don't see how that's possible."

"Why wouldn't it be possible?" Norrington turned to look the man full on in the face and was relieved when his legs continued to hold his weight. "As you so rightly pointed out, she is a fine woman. It would be a pleasure to...put her in the family way, as they say." He arched one eyebrow only the slightest bit; any more auxiliary movements and Norrington thought he would crack. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I would be amiss if I did not check on Catherine."

Beckett grasped his wrist, and the touch of his fingers seared Norrington's flesh even through his sleeve. "James," he said softly – Beckett never raised his voice; the angrier he got, the more quietly he spoke – and seized Norrington's hand, his thumb moving in slow circles over the skin. "James, you and I both know you don't fancy women. There's no need for this masquerade, this charade of courtship and proper affection. I introduced her to you, _I_ proposed the idea of an alliance between the two of you –"

"Alliance?" Norrington stared at Beckett. "Is that how you refer to my upcoming marriage, my lord, as an alliance? I assure you that it is far more than that. It is a coming together of souls that will culminate in the joining of bodies and the creation of life." He drew his hand from Beckett's, and the other man made no attempt to restrain him. "Now, if you'll excuse me –"

Beckett took a step back, and Norrington watched the cold, polite mask form like a shield until the fortress that was Beckett was impermeable once more. "Of course," he said civilly, gave a short bow and strode off into the ballroom. Norrington watched until the throng had enveloped him, and then he made it his business to single Catherine out from among the crowd. She wanted his confidence? She was about to have it.

* * *

"Those are my demons," he finished quietly, leaning on the railing. He couldn't meet her eyes, instead choosing to stare unblinkingly at the horizon, hoping the glimmer in his eyes could be mistaken for the effects of the salty night breeze.

At first Catherine did not speak, but then she gave a great sigh and he felt her arms encircle his waist. "Oh, James." Norrington bit his lip. He laid a hand atop hers where they met over his chest. "I'm sorry I cannot be what you desire."

He turned to face her, and gently took hold of her shoulders. "I still want this marriage," he said. "I want you for my wife."

"And I you for my husband." She touched his face. "I will still marry you, James, if you will still have me."

"I will," he said, and embraced her. Her body seemed so fragile; he could feel her heart beating against his like butterfly wings. "I'm sorry I cannot love you in all the ways a man should, Catherine. But I will be a good husband to you." _If it takes every ounce of will I have left_.

* * *

"Surely you're not still going to go through with this marriage." Norrington barely looked up as Beckett, unannounced, entered his office. "You cannot possibly delude yourself into thinking that this union will be anything but a mockery."

"Why should it be a mockery?" Norrington checked the inventory of the Dutchman's latest load of treasure: spices, silks, gold, jewels, ammunition and the highest grade rum available in the western hemisphere. "Catherine is well aware of my persuasions and she has expressed the desire to wed me in spite of them."

Beckett's nostrils flared in a subtle indication of anger. "You told her," he said contemptuously. "Can't you keep secrets in bed, James?"

"You should know," Norrington fired back, finally annoyed enough to snap out of his lethargy. "Tell me something, Cutler – why are you pretending to care? You were so eager to hand me off to a woman in the first place, I suppose my wedding day will be the best day of your life!"

Beckett, if it were possible, had paled. "I am warning you, James Norrington – do not presume to know what I think! If you had any sort of brains in your head you'd understand that the last thing on this earth that I wish for is your bloody marriage!" He took a deep breath, and Norrington noticed with something near awe that he was trembling. "Every night I wish I'd never met you," Beckett continued somewhat less emotionally, "because if I hadn't met you I wouldn't give a damn about your bloody wedding and you'd be just another brick in the wall –"

"Instead of another notch on your bedpost," Norrington finished without pausing to think about the consequences of his statement.

Beckett glowered at him and slammed his hand down on the desk so hard the bottle of ink overturned. Norrington watched the black liquid soak slowly into the papers on his desk, obscuring where he had so recently signed his name in the same ink.

"James," Beckett said, and now his voice was deadly soft, the quietest Norrington had ever been conscious to hear it. "I want you to shut your mouth for all of a minute and let me explain something to you." Beckett didn't wait for acknowledgement; he knew his order would be followed without question. "I know you may find this impossible to believe, but I do care about you. You are not, and I repeat, _not_ another notch in my bedpost. You are _not_ another meaningless fuck, do you understand? You're the reason I breathe."

Norrington's mouth opened, then closed. He started to say something and stopped, then stopped starting to say things and started. "I –"

"You what?" Beckett, both hands braced on the desk, leaned forward. He might have leapt right into his lap, so much did Norrington notice the invasion of space. "You _what_, James?"

Norrington shook his head wordlessly. He didn't dare to speak for fear of the words that would fall from his lips. If he said anything, he knew, he would say everything. And as much as Beckett had surprised him in the last thirty seconds alone, Norrington was still unsure about his feelings. All he wanted was three little words. If he heard those three little words, he would fall to his knees and promise forever. He would cancel the wedding instantly. If only Beckett would say he loved him.

Beckett caught him by the shoulders and hoisted him bodily from the chair. Norrington had no idea how that was even possible considering the height difference of nine inches, but before he knew it he was standing, Beckett was kneeling on his desk and kissing him so hard he thought the other man was going to suck his soul out through his mouth.

Norrington was at once overcome with desire. He pulled his lover closer, their chests together and their hearts pounding in time, and kissed him back until he thought he would die. Beckett tore his mouth from Norrington's own. "Aren't you worried someone will come in?" he asked mockingly even as he was undoing the buttons of Norrington's coat.

"If you had asked me at any other time –" Norrington trailed off as Beckett pushed the wig off his head so roughly it fell out the window behind his chair, and then his attention was summoned once more as the smaller man tore his shirt in the haste to get it off. "Cutler, believe it or not, I'm actually going to have to wear these clothes again."

Beckett stopped what he was doing and pinned Norrington with a pair of cloudy grey-green knives. "Are you going to insist on speaking all the way through this?"

Norrington's knees turned to water, and he fell back into the chair. "No," he said weakly.

"Pity." Beckett shrugged off his own jacket and tossed it casually to the floor. Still in a shirt and his breeches, he eased himself onto Norrington's lap. Norrington himself wore only said breeches, and they were not nearly enough to disguise his need. "Because if you in fact were going to talk, I was going to propose giving your mouth something else to do."

Norrington moaned, and Beckett ran his hands down Norrington's chest, leaned in to inhale against his neck. "Ah, James..." He grazed Norrington's shoulder with his sandpapery chin, but immediately assuaged the hurt with a gentle kiss. "So beautiful..."

Roughly, Norrington pushed Beckett away and rose to his feet. He knew he was trembling in a most undignified way, but all thoughts of dignity and propriety had been shot to hell the moment Beckett had entered Norrington's life. The word 'proper' was now a distant notion and decidedly not a commandment he lived by.

"Stop your flattery," he said, moving to stand in front of the window and folding his arms. Half of Port Royal probably had a good view of his chest now, but Norrington didn't care. He needed the fresh air, otherwise he was going to do something incredibly stupid...like fall in love with Beckett all over again. Why wouldn't the man just say it?

"More games?" Beckett said softly, and laid gentle hands on Norrington's waist. "Why are you still playing with me, James? Isn't it time to put all our cards on the table?"

Try as he might, Norrington could not relax. "If I didn't feel the way I did, I'd have gotten myself out of this mess a long time ago," he mumbled without rancour.

Beckett was tracing patterns on Norrington's back. "A fine illustration of the principle that rational self-interest yields mutual benefit."

"I have no choice in these events," Norrington said, his eyes half-closed, "but I'm curious as to what you tell yourself. How do you justify the way you've bound me to you?"

"Then she means nothing to you?" Beckett's tone was casual.

"Catherine?" Norrington asked in disbelief, and untangled himself from Beckett's embrace to turn to face the other man. "Is that what this is about? You know she could never be what you are to me."

"And what am I to you?" Beckett, try as he might to keep his voice level and even, sounded nothing short of passionate. He ran one fingertip along the edge of Norrington's desk in feigned idleness, and glanced up with an emotion very close to fear in his eyes.

Norrington took a deep breath and went for it. "Everything," he said simply. "You're all I've ever wanted. I love you."

Beckett's eyes glittered for a moment with what might have been tears, and then they were burning with a fire beyond the likes of anything Norrington had ever seen before. "And I you," he said fiercely, gripping Norrington's arms with surprising strength. "And I you."

"I would have given you everything without hesitation or the slightest resistance," Norrington told him. "My body, my heart, my soul – you could have had it all from the moment we met if only you'd said you loved me. You were the one playing, Cutler. And what was the point of it? Why all the games?"

"I have never loved before," Beckett said softly. "You were new territory for me, a new world to conquer, strange and...oddly beautiful. I needed to rule you utterly, to be sure you were mine and mine alone." He reached up and brushed Norrington's hair back in a gesture both breathtakingly gentle and sharply intimate. "If you love me, you cannot marry her."

"On the contrary, it is because I love you that I must marry her." Norrington shifted restlessly, then took a seat on the edge of the desk. "If anyone were to find out about us, we would be dishonoured, exiled...possibly worse. I can't let that happen. To the world we must appear to be nothing more than friends."

"Perhaps you can continue the charade, James, but I cannot." Beckett leaned against the wall, his gaze far away. "Every breath I take is a testament to how badly I need you. Every misstep, every time I forget a name I ought to remember or drop a thread of conversation, it all tells how you are on my mind. Every step I take is a step I need you by my side."

"Then you must marry as well," Norrington said. Beckett looked at him in surprise, and he continued, "The pretense must be perfect. We must both wed, have children, appear to love our wives and families in every way a man should. That is how we can hide."

Beckett was silent for some time, and then he nodded. "I found you a wife. You must do the same for me."

"I will," Norrington promised, and then laid a hand on the other man's thigh. "Shall we finish what we started, my lord?"

Beckett gave a devious smile. "Certainly, Admiral."

* * *

Find Beckett a wife. Norrington had not the faintest idea where to begin to look for a wife. First of all, he didn't really know many women, and second of all, none of the women he did know – with the exception of his bride-to-be – were good enough for his lover. Which meant that there was only one place to look.

"Catherine," Norrington said one evening, "do you know any other women?"

She laughed. "Sorry to disappoint, James, but you can't take more than one wife."

"No, no, not for me. For Cutler." Norrington poured himself a small brandy and one for her as well. "As a means of protecting him from scrutiny. You know as well as I do that the way I feel for him and he for me cannot become public knowledge."

Catherine sipped her brandy thoughtfully. "What sort of woman would suit him?"

"Someone like you," he said. "Someone beautiful and alive, courageous and intelligent. Do you perhaps have a twin sister?"

She laughed. "No, I have no other siblings. But there is a girl I grew up with who has turned out quite similar to myself. I think she'd suit Lord Beckett very well indeed. And she's also much shorter than I."

Norrington decided that it couldn't hurt to try. "What's her name?" he asked.

"Isabella."

* * *

Isabella Roberts was indeed beautiful, with silky black hair and dark, shadowed eyes that made all who saw her think at once of hot nights and cool sheets. She was willful, cunning and sharp-tongued – which might prove problematic in the long run – but what worried Norrington most was the fact that she lacked Catherine's correctness. Where Catherine would be cutting but politely so, Isabella would lay her opinion on you with not the slightest consideration of your feelings. All those things aside, she was not to be coerced into marriage. In short, Beckett would have to woo her the way Norrington had had to woo Catherine.

They arranged the first meeting to be at Norrington's wedding, which was only a few days hence. The actual ceremony passed too swiftly for Norrington to say he really remembered any of it, and both he and his new wife waited with bated breath at the reception to see how Beckett would get along with Isabella.

Catherine had been appointed the one to introduce them. Norrington stood in a corner with Beckett, making small talk. The other man was quiet; if he was nervous, he showed no sign of it. To Norrington's eyes, he was as cool and calm as always.

"There she is," Norrington muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he spied Catherine approaching with Isabella in tow. Beckett acted precisely as though he hadn't heard, and continued some mildly interesting talk about wiping out piracy. As the women neared, Norrington cleared his throat. "Ah, my lovely wife. Catherine, darling –"

"Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage," Beckett said to Catherine, overriding Norrington. He took her hand. "I fear that the match is a somewhat uneven one, but I thoroughly expect that you will reform James as you see fit."

Catherine smiled. "I shall, my lord."

Norrington murmured something appropriate and Catherine stepped back to put Isabella in the spotlight. "May I introduce my friend Isabella Roberts. Isabella, you already know my husband. And this is Lord Cutler Beckett."

Isabella was possibly at her most magnificent, with her hair in a simple style that drew attention to her long, graceful neck. In the red gown, Norrington could not help but think that she looked utterly ravishing, and he wondered what Beckett was thinking.

Beckett himself looked spectacular, dressed immaculately in black velvet with gold trimming. His shirt was the finest woven linen, his leather boots polished to a mirror sheen. And although Beckett was always impeccable in his attire and deportment, Norrington thought he had never seen the man look more refined, more collected, more absolutely charming.

"My lady," Beckett said, and Norrington felt a pang of envy at how those green eyes fixed on the woman as though there were no one but her in the room. "Pardon me if I seem forward, but you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Care to dance?"

Isabella said nothing for a moment, her piercing dark gaze searching him, and then she nodded. "Of course, my lord." He offered her his arm, and they disappeared into the crowd.

Catherine turned to Norrington. "Did you warn him about her?"

"Repeatedly. But I have a feeling all her womanly wiles will fail before him." Norrington, having seen Beckett in action, could not be worried. "Cutler always gets what he wants."

Catherine did not look so sure. "Isabella is not the sort to bend to any man's will."

Norrington gave a rueful smile. "Neither was I."

* * *

Isabella was an elegant dancer, Beckett noted, voluptuous on a small scale – she was several inches shorter than he – and with a red pouting mouth that seemed to be setting itself up for a kiss. Her eyes studied him; mockingly, he thought. But that would not last for long. What Lord Cutler Beckett wanted, Lord Cutler Beckett got.

"Are you tired?" he asked her as they spun around the floor in wide, sweeping arcs. This was their third dance, and while he was by no means tired, he wanted to get on with business. Beckett did not like uncertainty.

"Not particularly," she responded, "but I could perhaps use a bit of fresh air."

Arm in arm, they moved from the hot ballroom onto the balcony, and Beckett leaned back against the railing, studying her profile. Isabella, who seemed to be pondering the harbour below, didn't notice his gaze – or pretended not to.

"All men are drawn to the sea, perilous through it may be," he said softly. "And you are as inescapably enchanting, as harsh and changing and untamable as the sea. And beautiful, as moonlight on the waves, as starlight above the horizon."

The breeze pulled a stray curl from her up-do and let it fall against her cheek. "Pretty words, but they mean nothing." Her eyes met his suddenly, measuring and calculating. "You mean nothing to me, my lord."

Norrington had warned him about this. Beckett raised one eyebrow but did not change his expression in any other way. "Can I be blamed for my efforts?" he asked. "I am drawn to you as I have been drawn to no other woman. You are a goddess."

Perhaps it was the light and shadow, but he thought she smiled. "Often men offer desire as an excuse for their sins."

Beckett laid his hand over hers. "I offer simply my desire."

Her fingers gave the slightest twitch beneath his, and she turned her head away from him for a moment. When she turned back she looked careless and laughing, which he knew was not at all how she felt. "An item of such small value," she said lightly. "And in return?"

He looked at her intently. "I would have your heart, should you choose to give it."

Isabella's glance wavered, and her eyes dropped to where his hand rested atop hers. Her breathing hitched, and her voice cracked almost imperceptibly as she asked, "And if I choose not?"

"Then I will take your fury," he whispered, and kissed her. She offered no resistance, leaning against him, her mouth pliant under his.

Kissing a woman was not an altogether unpleasant experience, thought Beckett. The softness of her skin and the supple roundness of her breasts against his chest was unlike the planes of Norrington's long, firm body, and her hair had a sweet scent that Beckett was not used to, but the differences were not without their own strange appeal. It would take some getting used to, but he thought he could manage it.

He drew back, composure perfectly intact, and waited for her to catch her breath. "Do you choose to give your heart, Isabella?"

She gave him a sharp glance, straightened up to her full height and replied haughtily, "I need some time to think about it. I'll get back to you when I have decided. Now if you're quite finished manhandling me, I feel I would like to return to Catherine's company."

Beckett smiled slightly and gave a short bow. "I await your favourable response," he said with almost mock cordiality, and watched as she swept off among the dancing couples. She was his, he was sure of it. Now to find James...

* * *

Norrington was unsurprised when Beckett returned alone. "How did it go?"

"Well, if I may say so." The smaller man plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter and took a sip. "She'll let me know when she's ready."

"Cutler," Norrington said in frank amazement, "do you mean you proposed to her?"

"In a nutshell." Beckett raised one eyebrow coolly. "Oh, was I supposed to wait a certain number of months and go through a performance of courtship deserving of recognition by the King? Well, you know I'm not versed in these things, so I do hope you'll forgive my ignorance."

Norrington goggled. "You only just met!"

Beckett shrugged, set his glass down on a nearby table and clasped his hands behind his back. "Excuse me, but you didn't give me a step-by-step guide on how to approach a woman with a view towards marriage. I beg your pardon if I didn't do the thing properly."

Norrington kept with Beckett as they descended the wide staircase. "Do you think she'll say yes?"

Beckett gave a peculiar smile. "I'm sure she will."

Norrington decided not to ask, and instead eyed the cobblestones as they strolled slowly through the courtyard. It was night, but the pale moonlight shone down from above, making Beckett's white wig glow. "And what are your plans for the company?"

"I have new orders for the _Dutchman_ and our growing armada," Beckett said, head tilted back to study the stars. "We will attack European shipping." Norrington nodded wordlessly. "Does your conscience bother you, Admiral?" The tone was mocking. "Our efforts secure the sea for British commerce. What serves the company serves England."

"I do not doubt your fervour, Cutler," Norrington said wryly, "and I assure you that my loyalty is to the East India Trading Company and to you." He regarded the empty courtyard. The breeze had died now, the moon behind a cloud; it was dark and still. "You gave me back my life. I will not forget that."

"I know." Beckett stopped walking and turned to him. "I expect that your marriage will change things between us, James. You will have all the responsibilities that come with a wife and a family. You will have children, and you will worry about their education and their future. Your job will take you far from them, and perhaps in time you may wish to reconsider your career. My marriage will give me the same cares."

"Cutler, nothing will change," Norrington said as soon as Beckett had finished. "You are everything and that's the end of that. Whatever family I might have would never come between us."

"Yes, James," Beckett said patiently. "You say this freely now. But there will come a day when we will not have the determination – or perhaps the energy – to pursue this any longer. The price we pay to defy public scrutiny is knowing that what we have must die. Perhaps we can see each other infrequently, make quick rushed love in dark corners, but the way it is between us now...that can never last."

The sheer frustration was too much to bear. Norrington felt he could cry. "Why must it die?" he burst out. "Why must this be wrong? How can love be wrong, Cutler?"

"I do not make the rules, James, I merely abide by them." And now Beckett would not look at him. "And so must you, or face dishonour and ruin us both."


	2. Chapter 2

_Port Royal_

_May, 1736_

Catherine cradled the baby on her hip with the ease of an expert and swiftly snatched the jeweled dagger from the hands of her daughter. "How many times have I told you that that is not for you to play with? Now here, take this – carefully – to your father. And don't be your usual impertinent self to our guest." Elizabeth took the decanter of brandy in her small hands with exaggerated caution and skipped out of the room. Catherine looked after her elder child and sighed.

She and Norrington had been married seven years and had two children. Elizabeth was six and the apple of her father's eye. Headstrong and decidedly unladylike, she would run about in trousers and a shirt while at home, playfighting with a small wooden sword and pretending she was an officer in the Navy. She knew very well, however, how to behave herself when she was in the public eye.

Catherine handed her sleeping two year old son to the nanny. James was the image of his father, dark-haired, blue-eyed and serious. He was no trouble at all, entirely unlike Elizabeth, who had been attracted to dangerous objects ever since she'd first learned what danger was. Straightening her dress and smoothing her hair, Catherine entered the sitting room.

Seven years had done no disservice to Isabella. Her pretty young face had been given a striking, mature beauty, and grey was yet to touch her black hair. Her face was still smooth, yet the slightest crinkles showed around the corners of her eyes, deepening when she smiled and held out a glass of wine. "I thought you'd need it."

"I do," Catherine said ruefully, and took a sip, having her usual seat on the sofa next to her friend. "And how are yours?"

Isabella and her husband had two children as well. One was a boy two weeks older than Elizabeth, whose name was Thomas, and the other was a one-year-old girl named Catherine, who of course went by Cathy so as not to cause confusion. The two families were still very close; the Becketts were James' and Elizabeth's godparents, and the Norringtons were godparents to Thomas. And perhaps it was a testament to how high Lord Beckett's standing was now that Cathy's godparents were no less than the King and Queen themselves.

"Oh, they're fine," Isabella said now. "I wish I could have brought Thomas because he and Elizabeth do get on so wonderfully, but he's not terribly well, the poor thing."

Catherine made appropriate noises of sympathy, but she knew it was a farce. Thomas was as tough as nails and had never been sick a day in his life. The real issue was that Isabella, who had begun to suspect that something untoward was occurring between their husbands and that Catherine knew, did not want to encourage any more association between their families than was absolutely necessary for business. And if that meant lying and depriving their children of seeing each other in order to drive a wedge between Beckett and Norrington, she was prepared to do that.

Catherine didn't think that would work. Seven years down the line, almost eight years to the day they had first met, Norrington and Beckett had probably never been closer. The only instances when they were apart for any real length of time were when Norrington was at sea on some errand or other, commanding the vast armada that now controlled all of the Spanish Main and by far most of the South Asia shipping routes. England, without a doubt, ruled the seven seas.

And the King ruled England in name only, for Beckett was the most powerful man in all the colonies and quite possibly in the mother country as well. His name was known and feared by every man still brave enough to call himself pirate. He had ruthlessly crushed all resistance, employing the Royal Navy as well as privateers to raid and capture other European ships, hanging hundreds of pirates together in a great public show, and breaking almost every single maritime law in existence. Seafaring etiquette had been thoroughly rewritten since Beckett had come on the scene.

Catherine could not help but admire the man. He was quiet but commanding, polite but ever so insistent, and he seemed never to sleep. Often she would get up in the middle of the night and go downstairs for a drink of water only to find Beckett and her husband standing over maps and charts. And no matter how hard her husband argued his point of view, in the end, he would always be won over to Beckett's. And no matter how morally offensive Beckett's point of view was, it would always sound perfectly reasonable by the time Beckett had shut his mouth on the last syllable of his argument.

Idly she swirled the wine in her glass, and smiled at something Isabella had said. Fortunately she no longer had to really listen; her friend's conversations all tended to follow the same line of society gossip, singing her husband's praises, and telling of their latest dinner with the governor or other aristocracy. Catherine personally didn't care much for Isabella any more, but she made the effort to please Norrington.

She worried about him, for lately he had seemed distracted and disturbed. It couldn't help but make her wonder if things were all right with Beckett. She could keep his bed warm at night, listen to the thoughts of his troubled mind and raise his children, but only Beckett could truly soothe her husband's restless soul.

* * *

"Thank you, darling," Norrington said, accepting the heavy crystal decanter from his daughter. She was a beautiful child that promised to be a beautiful woman, if only she would stop behaving like the offspring of a Tortuga wench. "Good Lord, you look an absolute fright. What were you doing?"

"Playing with the dagger I'm not supposed to touch," Elizabeth responded promptly, and dashed across the room to throw her arms around the man in the other chair. "Uncle Cutler –"

"Lord Beckett," Norrington corrected, with no hope that she was paying any attention.

" – may I see your sword? I'll be really careful, I promise –"

Beckett held up one hand, smothering a laugh. "Save your promises for your father, my dear child. Now, do you see that vase in the corner of the room? My sword happens to be in it. It's easy to recognize because it is the smallest sword in there. Take it out – hold it by the hilt if you love your fingers – and bring it to me."

Elizabeth shot across the room and came running back with the hilt of the sword grasped in her small hands. Norrington plucked the sword from her just in time to save the table from a nasty scratch. "Elizabeth."

"Sorry, Papa." His daughter fixed her eyes meekly on the floor, then glanced over at Beckett. "Are you going to teach me to fight?" she asked with barely restrained enthusiasm.

"I don't think I'm qualified enough nor energetic enough to teach you anything," Beckett answered, getting to his feet, "but I'll see if your father remembers his more active days." He extended his hand for his sword.

Norrington, who still fought pirates occasionally and meted out discipline to errant crewmembers on a regular basis, was most amused but handed over the sword anyway. "I think, Cutler, that you will find me far more athletic than you," he said in a deliberately pompous way, and fished his own sword out of the vase. A quick glance up and down the blade, and he whirled around to slash at Beckett.

Their blades locked for a moment, and Beckett parried neatly. "I think," Beckett replied demurely, "that you overestimate the importance of your much-vaunted height." His blade, lighter and thinner, whipped through the air and Norrington barely managed to avoid tearing his coat. "Being smaller can be an advantage."

"So your desk job has not lessened your skill," Norrington allowed with the beginnings of a sinking feeling, "but let's see how well you remember to dance."

Norrington had learned swordplay at a fairly young age, and was proficient enough in it to feel confident about his ability to best Beckett in terms of style. This feeling did not last long; within a matter of minutes Beckett had reduced Norrington to a frantically dodging mess of twitchy movements and Norrington was cursing himself for his asinine suggestion. But perhaps he could still win.

Norrington parried a shallow thrust, kicked Beckett's right foot from beneath him and dropped onto the smaller man as he fell back onto the couch in sheer surprise. "Parley?" Norrington asked sweetly from his position on Beckett's chest.

Green eyes stared into his. "You cheated," came the tight response, and Norrington knew his weight was probably making it difficult for Beckett to breathe. He didn't move.

"If cheating is the only way to win a fight, one may as well cheat," Norrington answered. "I learned that from you."

Beckett tried to snort. It came out a wheeze. "Hardly something to be teaching your daughter."

"I'd rather she be wise in the ways of the world than naïve. People take advantage of you when you're naïve, Cutler. When you're in need. Someone who has what you want will withhold it from you until you offer a price you can't possibly pay." Norrington fixed his gaze on Beckett. "And then you'll owe them. You'll owe them your life and so much more. I don't want that to happen to Elizabeth."

Beckett returned the look unblinkingly. "Currency is the currency of the realm, James. It has always been so. I, personally, trade in needs. If you need something, I will travel to the ends of the earth and back to be able to supply it. It will cost you just a little more than you have, but there are always other forms of payment." He lowered his voice. "There is more than one chest of value in these waters."

"Elizabeth," Norrington said without looking up, "go find your mother. Ask her where I put the maps of the East Indies."

"But Papa, the fight –"

"The fight is over, Elizabeth. Now do as I say and go find your mother." Norrington waited until she had gone, and finally allowed emotion to cross his face. He slid down so that he was genuflecting on the floor between Beckett's knees. "Why did you do it? Why did you do this to me?"

"We did it to each other," Beckett said, and for the first time he looked weary. "Do you honestly think I need you any less? I need you more than I ever have; I love you more than I ever did. Whatever torment you feel, know that I feel it also."

"We could leave all of this behind," Norrington said desperately. "We could take our profits and go somewhere where no one would know us."

"Somewhere where no one would know us?" Beckett looked surprised. "And where would that be? They know me everywhere, James, and they know you as well. France, Portugal, Holland – we would be shot on sight on anything but English soil. Besides, you know my ambition does not allow me to simply cut and run. I must see this through."

"Through to what? We've done all we can. Jones and his terrible leviathan control the seas. We control the seas. No ships sail but our own. Piracy has been extinguished. What more is there to do?" Norrington knew he was being unreasonable but went ahead with it anyway. "Perhaps in America –"

"James, stop." Beckett shook his head. "No. This is the life I have chosen for myself. I have the East India Trading Company. I have almost singlehandedly given England a complete monopoly over the seas. I may as well be the King. Why would I give this up?" He gave a sharp laugh. "No, James. I cannot walk away from this. Not for the empire, the world or even you."

Norrington pushed himself to his feet and sat down heavily in the chair across from Beckett. It was some time before he could compose himself enough to speak. "Seven years ago at my wedding you warned me that things would change. You said that our marriages would change things and that we would never be able to continue with the way we were. I didn't believe you. Up to yesterday I didn't believe you. But now I see, now I know. You were right in that things have changed between us, but you're wrong – it's not our marriages that have caused it. It's you. Seven years and you haven't changed. You're still the same. And I still mean nothing to you."

Beckett stood up, brushed down his coat and sheathed his sword neatly. "Admiral Norrington," he said cordially. "Kindly give your wife my regards. I would appreciate it if a servant could be sent to tell my wife that I am leaving, but she can of course stay as long as she wishes."

"My new orders," Norrington said hastily, and Beckett turned from by the door. Anything to make him stay, even if only a moment longer. "Your new orders for the company – shall I stop by your office tomorrow to collect them?"

"Do not feel the need. I will have Mercer bring them to you." Beckett gave a short bow. "Good day, Admiral."

The door clicked shut, and Norrington sank back into the couch, one hand over his face and too distraught to cry. There was the sound of footsteps, and Elizabeth burst into the room with an armload of scrolls. "Papa, Papa, I found the maps! What's wrong? Did Uncle Cutler hurt you in the fight?"

"Yes, my beloved girl." Norrington seized his daughter and held her tightly in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He was able to stop his voice from shaking, but now he could not keep the tears out of his eyes. "Your Uncle Cutler did hurt me a bit, but don't worry. A hug from my darling will make everything better."


	3. Chapter 3

_Port Royal_

_June, 1749_

"You look lovely," Norrington said, fixing the circlet of flowers on Elizabeth's golden hair for the hundredth time. "Now stop fidgeting and let me take you in. If we dawdle any longer he'll think you mean to call off the wedding."

"Are you _sure_ it looks right, Papa?" Elizabeth tugged fretfully at a stray lock of hair, dislodging the flowers yet again. "I can't imagine going in there in front of all those people in this dress."

"In any dress, you mean, you wayward girl." Norrington adjusted the garland for the final time and held his daughter's face in his hands. "You are beautiful and I love you. Now get in there and marry the bloody boy."

A grin he recognized from childhood danced across Elizabeth's face. "Yes, Papa."

Walking Elizabeth down the church aisle was a painful process. He had once thought he'd be glad to get rid of the troublesome little wench, but now that his daughter had grown into a lovely young woman of whom any father would be proud, he couldn't believe what he was doing. The young man she was marrying was handsome, intelligent, brave, charming and fabulously wealthy. But unfortunately, he was also Thomas Beckett.

Thomas was, Norrington had to admit, a thoroughly decent young man. He was kind, considerate, generous, polite and still very playful. He had even managed to grow to the same height as Elizabeth – a shock considering his parents were so short. And he did love her. But Norrington still worried that his regrettable parentage would show through one day and that Thomas would become as cold and as calculating as his father.

To Norrington, the worst part of walking down the aisle was having everybody stare at them. Elizabeth, however, was so beautiful that he knew all the eyes were on her and not on him, and it wasn't the ordinary people that bothered him anyway. What made him cringe inside was approaching the front of the church and seeing the groom's parents. But Norrington fixed his eyes straight ahead, made it to the altar without collapsing, handed off his daughter with a smile, and moved to stand next to his wife.

Catherine took his hand in hers. Age might have mellowed her but time had not ravaged her, and Norrington doubted it ever would. She was still as beautiful as she had been twenty years ago when they had first met, and he had learned to love her in a different, deeper way from how he had loved her then. Silver was appearing in her hair and crow's feet by her eyes, but Norrington cherished his wife's flaws. They were like lyrics to a song that whispered of everything she had been through, a song that was always changing, a song he never tired of trying to learn.

Across the aisle, dark eyes watched the proceedings critically. Isabella stood there, still striking as ever with her black eyebrows and olive skin, but in the last few years she had grown fat. Several chins jostled with her neck for space, and her dress, while spectacular, was ill-fitting; her tightly corseted bosom threatened to ruin her modesty. Her mouth was set in a line that set off explosions of wrinkles at the edges of her lips.

The years had not changed Beckett at all. He was still erect, still with a small, neat build, still dressed not to impress but to outdo. He stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back, face inscrutable. Norrington thought his expression might have been unenthusiastic but not disapproving, and his fingers tightened on Catherine's.

"Papa," James whispered, and Norrington turned to his son. James had become a good-looking young man, tall and sleek with thick hair and clear, guileless eyes. He looked quite dashing in his blue velvet, and Norrington had noticed several girls eyeing him surreptitiously. "You're supposed to be _happy_ at weddings."

"Thank you for reminding me, I'd forgotten," Norrington muttered, which made James smile, and turned back to Catherine. "Did we do the right thing in agreeing to this madness?"

"What else could we do?" she asked. "Could we deny her what was denied you?"

There was a pang in Norrington's chest. "I fear it was denied you as well," he said softly.

Catherine smiled. "Nonsense, James. I have always loved you. I was content to be by your side and to raise our family. I have never, not even in my silent prayers late at night, asked for anything more than that. I did not need more. I still don't."

"I love you," he said, and squeezed her hand. "I do. Thank you for this. For everything."

"No. Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

_Port Royal_

_November, 1754_

"Papa, Papa, you'll never believe it!" Elizabeth stopped running when she reached him and bent over, hands on knees, to catch her breath. "I can hardly believe it myself – James is getting married!"

Norrington alighted carefully from his horse and took his daughter by the shoulders. "James? Getting married? I thought I'd never see the day that boy would settle down! Well, don't keep me in suspense. To whom?"

"To _Cathy_!" Elizabeth burst out laughing. "My sister-in-law, our childhood friend! I didn't even know they'd been courting!"

"It's news to me as well," Norrington muttered. "So it's final, then? The date has been set?"

"All the arrangements are being made!" Elizabeth shook her head. "I can't believe she didn't tell me. I can't believe _he_ didn't tell me! Apparently Cathy accidentally let it slip to Thomas, who came riding home from work as soon as he'd heard. I think James was probably planning some sort of elopement."

Norrington ground his teeth. It was his own fault James had kept things a secret. The boy knew of the silent hostility between the two families and had no doubt thought that yet another Beckett-Norrington wedding would be too much for his father to bear. And perhaps he was right. God alone knew how much Norrington was dreading seeing Beckett again. Once, the man had been all that kept Norrington together. But oh, how things fall apart...

"I've got to tell your mother," he said at last. "Is there anyone who can send a message for me?"

"Oh, I've already done that," Elizabeth said. "As soon as I heard I dashed off a letter and sent Alice with it. It probably hasn't got there yet, but Mother will definitely know by the time you get back home."

Norrington rubbed his face. He was getting too old to keep up with this sort of thing. "When is the wedding set for?"

"January." She took the reins from him. "You go inside and get comfortable, Papa. I'll have one of the grooms put Gunpowder in the stable, I'll just be a minute."

* * *

Norrington poured himself several fingers of brandy and made himself comfortable in an armchair. Elizabeth and Thomas had a comfortable house, full of fresh air and flowers in painted vases. It was nestled in a small valley, just a couple miles from his own home, and Norrington and his wife visited them frequently. Today, however, Catherine had elected to stay behind in order to finish certain of her shopping.

"Well, that's done," Elizabeth declared, entering the room. "Are you comfortable, Papa?"

"Yes, my dear, perfectly comfortable." Norrington smiled at his daughter. She was in many ways still the child he adored and had so often scolded. Wearing a simple white dress that nonetheless became her completely, she went barefoot indoors and tied back her hair with a scrap of ribbon. "How have you been getting on?"

"It hasn't been as awful as I thought," she admitted with a grin, smoothing the dress over her rounded stomach. "Of course, I can't run about quite as much as I used to, but that's not for too much longer."

"When are you expecting my first grandchild?" Norrington asked, sipping the brandy slowly.

"April," Elizabeth replied. "Thomas insists that it's a girl, but I think it'll be a boy. What do you think?"

"I'm happy with either," he said diplomatically. "Have you thought of any names?"

"Thomas wants Isabella if it's a girl and Joseph if it's a boy." She made a face. "Joseph Edward, of all things. I haven't given any thought as to a girl's name – I suppose Catherine would be the obvious choice – but of course I've got my heart set on James for a boy."

Norrington smiled and set the unfinished glass on the table. "How's Thomas doing?"

"Oh, he's fine. His job does keep him rather busy, but he comes home twice a week for lunch and he usually gets back before dark. That's one benefit of working for family; you get to come and go as you please. Father's not letting him shirk his duties, though. Thomas can do as he wishes as long as he finishes what needs to be done." Elizabeth frowned suddenly. "Where's Mother? I had expected to see her today. Is she all right?"

"Yes, yes, she just needed to do a bit of shopping. We can't have you around for dinner next week if we haven't got food to feed you with." Norrington held up a hand when Elizabeth looked like she was going to refill his glass. "Please, no more. I'm not as young as I once was. I can't afford to casually fall off my horse anymore."

His daughter laughed. "Papa! You're still a young man. You're not sixty yet."

"Fifty-nine is hardly a young man," Norrington said ruefully. "But if I die before I can better express it, or if I ever forget in my dotage, Elizabeth, let me tell you know that I am very proud of you. You and James both. I could not have asked for finer children."

Elizabeth looked acutely self-conscious. "But I was a terrible child."

"No, darling. When I would reproach you, it was only because I did not want you to ever be unhappy. You were willful, yes, and obstinate, but I should have recognized in your strength of will your courage." Norrington took his daughter's hand in his. "I am proud of you."

"Papa, do not say these things," she said gently. Her eyes were bright with tears. "You have many years left. I have grandchildren to give you, and one day so will James. You will grow old to the sound of children's laughter, Papa, I know it."

Norrington tried to speak, but could find no words to say. He simply nodded, and they sat there in silence, looking out onto the brilliant colours of the setting sun, until night had fallen and it was time for him to leave.


	5. Chapter 5

_Port Royal_

_December, 1754_

It is cold, wet and grey. From where Norrington stands to one side of the open grave, dimly hearing the Latin spoken by the priest, the weather is an accurate metaphor for his feelings. God is probably a poet, he decides. It would make horrible, ironic sense.

Everything is horrible and ironic about this moment. He had been dreading seeing Beckett, not wanting to lay eyes on that pale smooth face for fear of reigniting all the feelings he had been doggedly trying to quench. And now he stands in perfect silence, the rain on his face, drinking in the sight of the only person he has ever truly loved...and all for nothing. Because Beckett is the one in the coffin.

Cause of death, unknown. Just like Beckett to be enigmatic, even in dying. Isabella looks most out of place; Norrington thinks she could try, just a little, to show some grief. The coquettish glances she keeps flicking at one of the young pallbearers are not the typical reaction of a wife to her beloved husband's untimely demise.

Norrington is glad for the rain. It helps to hide the tears. He stands apart from the other mourners. Catherine is being a mother to Elizabeth, Thomas, James and Cathy all at the same time, and he is grateful beyond words for that and for the fact that she knows he must be left alone. And he does love her. But Norrington cannot love anyone in the way he loved – and loves – Cutler Beckett.

Emotionless even in death, green eyes closed to the world, lilting voice forever silenced. In eternal darkness now; the coffin lid is shut. Norrington wishes he were in the coffin too, to lie in darkness one last time with the man he so loves. If only love could save...

Norrington watches, heart breaking, as the coffin is lowered into the hole in the black earth. He wonders if it was worth it to Beckett to stay, not to go when he, Norrington, had asked him to. If the life Beckett had in Port Royal was the life he had wanted. He wonders if Beckett ever dreamt of him, if he had ever accidentally whispered the wrong name. He wonders if Beckett still loved him on the day that he died.

Norrington bends down and picks up a clod of dirt. It is soft, moist from the rain. He sinks his fingers into it, clenching it so tightly in his fist that he thinks he too will die of unknown causes here in this cemetery. And he thinks of all that he was never able to do, of every opportunity he never took, of the words he should have said every day from the moment they met.

"I love you," he whispers to the rain.

"I love you," he says to the small grove of trees.

"I love you," he cries to the people in black, to the priest with his crucifix, the people gathered round the grave as though that is where Beckett really is. "I love you." And the world hears, but life goes on. The rain continues. Norrington's heart keeps beating, and only the mourners in the churchyard stare.

Norrington drops the clod of dirt onto the coffin. It makes a quiet thud that he is almost too old to hear anymore. "I love you." What does it matter if everyone knows? Beckett was the one who worried about society, and Beckett is dead. Norrington may as well die too.

But it is only December. His son's wedding is in January, and Elizabeth is due to give birth in April. And there is his wife, holding Beckett's children like her own. He cannot die. He must live. If only for this, these four young people and this one incredible woman who has turned out to be more than he could ever have hoped for.

He walks away, in the rain. He will get on his horse, and ride slowly home, and think. And then he will sleep, and in the morning he will wake. Because tomorrow is another day.


	6. Epilogue

_Port Royal_

_April, 1755_

It was almost dawn, and Thomas had been pacing the hallway outside the bedroom for going on an hour. Norrington, from where he sat with Catherine, recognized in the nervous energy of the young man what he himself was feeling. Excitement, mingled with raw anxiety. Elizabeth was strong. But as far as medicine had come in his lifetime alone, childbirth was still a dangerous and possibly deadly thing.

As though she had read his mind, Catherine said, "She'll be all right." He looked at her, and thought that he had never loved her more than he did at that moment. "She will, James. I know my daughter. A mother always knows."

"Papa," came a voice he recognized, and James appeared at the top of the stairs. Cathy, who was darkly beautiful like her mother but seemingly without any of Isabella's worse personality traits, trailed a few steps behind him. She offered a shy smile which Norrington returned without hesitation.

"I came as soon as I heard," James was saying. "Why didn't someone write me? I was only at the other end of the island!"

"James, you knew for nine months that your sister was having a baby due in April," Catherine said with a mother's patience. "We shouldn't have had to write you. If you wanted to be here, you should have made sure you were here."

James mumbled something that might have been an admission of his idiocy and sat down in the chair next to his father. "Is she all right?"

"It's hard to say for sure," Norrington said. "The midwife's been in there for the last half hour, and she stopped letting us in about an hour ago. But Elizabeth's strong. She'll do fine."

"Oh, there was something I wanted to mention," James began, so casually that Norrington knew he was up to mischief. "I don't know if now's the best time to say it, but I suppose it's as good as any. Er, Cathy and I, well –"

"We're going to have a baby!" Cathy burst out, her face glowing.

Norrington broke into a smile. He clapped his son on the back, then gave him a bear hug and kissed Cathy on the cheek. "Congratulations to you both. Another little one in the family. What could be better for an old man in his retirement?"

Catherine nudged him, and half-rose from her seat. "James, look."

Silence fell, and all attention turned to Thomas, who was holding a hushed conversation with the midwife through a crack in the door. Norrington got to his feet, heart pounding. If he could make it through this, he thought, he was good for another few years.

The door shut again, and Thomas turned to them with a flood of emotion on his face. "Twins," he whispered, like he couldn't believe it. "A boy and a girl. Twins!"

"And Elizabeth?" Norrington asked anxiously.

"Exhausted, as you can imagine, but Ellen says she'll be fine." Thomas put out a hand for support, almost blindly, and Norrington was there. He gripped Thomas' shoulder, and slowly, the young man's face split in a grin. "Twins!"

There was a communal sigh of relief, followed by great happiness. Hugs and kisses passed around, and Thomas sank into a chair a ways away from everyone with a dazed smile. Norrington pulled up the one next to him and gave his son-in-law a fatherly pat on the arm. "Are you all right?"

"I need a drink," Thomas said, and laughed. "I'm just glad it's over."

"What will you name your twins, then?" Norrington asked.

Thomas seemed to hesitate. He pursed his lips, frowning, and his face was very serious. That expression, on him, made him the image of Beckett, and Norrington's chest tightened until he thought he would go mad. Beckett's death was still too recent. The wound was too fresh, and seeing his lover's face in the face of this young man was almost too much to bear.

"Isabella Catherine for the girl, I think," he said at last. "And the boy, well..." He looked up at Norrington. "I know how you felt about my father," he said quietly and with great tenderness, "and I know how he felt about you. And I know that you two didn't speak for a long time prior to his death, but...he never stopped loving you. He wrote long letters to you in the months before he died, letters he never had any intention of posting. I found them, scrolls upon scrolls, tucked away in a corner of his study. I didn't know what they were, so I read one...and I couldn't help but read them all. I kept them safe for you, sir, if you want to go through them."

Norrington couldn't breathe. He turned his face away, looked down the darkened corridor, not wanting Thomas to see the tears in his eyes, and he shook his head, just once. He wouldn't read the letters. It was too late, Beckett was dead. As long as Thomas said he had loved him, he would believe that. He could not read the letters. It would kill him.

"And so, with your permission, sir," Thomas continued in that same soft voice that was Beckett's voice, only younger, "Elizabeth and I would like to name our son James Cutler Norrington Beckett."

Norrington, overwhelmed, put his hands to his face, but it was too late to stop the tears. Nothing he did now could stop the years of agony and loneliness that poured out of his eyes. For so long, he had lived without the man he had loved. For years, Norrington had gone without the sound of Beckett's voice, the touch of those cool fingers on his skin. And now to learn that Beckett had still loved him...and for Thomas to name the first child born of their families' union in a way that would entwine James Norrington with Cutler Beckett forever...

"Thank you," Norrington managed to gasp through shuddering breaks in his endless flood of tears. "Thank you."

"No, sir," Thomas said gently, and stood to rejoin the group further down the corridor. "Thank you. Because of you, my father knew what love was. He was loved utterly and completely by at least one person in his lifetime, for I doubt any of us delude ourselves into thinking that my mother ever loved him, and as much as Cathy and I did – and do – love him, what you gave him was something different. You gave him what his wife and children could not. The only time he was truly happy was when he was with you. So it is I who must thank you."

Thomas walked away and Norrington sat by himself in the darkness, shedding silent tears for all the sorrow in his life, all the wasted years. But then he wiped his face and squared his shoulders, because he had two new grandchildren, and there were things to do. "James Cutler Norrington Beckett," he said quietly. "I must live now." But he did not rise to do anything.


End file.
